I had a revelation this summer?football is the world's greatest sport. I'm not quite sure exactly when this illuminating discovering of mine ultimately culminated; however, I do have an idea as to when it began. In late April of last year, I was playing the famous hang-out game, sitting on what looked like a poor man's video game chair in my dormitory's common room, and saw a ball?it could have been no bigger than a typical watermelon?hiding shyly beneath the TV table. Bored from winning one too many games on Mario Kart (on which I trumped Toad at least thrice, mind you), I decided to go introduce myself to the bashful ball.
Too indolent to bend down and get it, I used my right foot to greet it, and then rolled it out into the open so I could get to know it a little better. I then began to kick it lightly, making several futile attempts to juggle the great sphere back and forth, left foot to right foot in mid-air. And it's hit you now?I wasn't juggling nor talking about American football, but international football, or as the USA calls it, soccer.
Now I know that after reading that mysterious word, I've probably lost most (if not all) of my audience for this article. But for those of you who are still with me, I wish to tell you that this article is actually not even about soccer, Ronaldinho, David Beckham, Posh Spice, The New York Red Bulls (or Red Bull New York), Juan Pablo Angel, Jozy Altidore, Chelsea FC, Posh Spice, Michael Essien, Cesc Fabregas, Didier Drogba, Posh Spice, Stamford Bridge, Kaká, free kicks, World Cup, Posh Spice, penalty kicks, FIFA, or Posh Spice, nor about my new obsession with the world's greatest sport?that's me walking around campus with the MLS knapsack by the way?but instead about my rebirth into American football, catalyzed by soccer. So, I'm sorry if this last paragraph offended any of you, or came off as too repugnant for your eyes to bear...hopefully I'll do better in the third round.
I found juggling the soccer ball to be an absolute delight, even if I was popping, locking, and dropping it most every time I started up for the first few weeks, but persistence is a funny thing. Before long, I could actually kick it four or five times before my new friend went tumbling down to the floor, and when school finally ended, I found myself a field. No longer were my radical juggling experiments to be confined to the tight walls of my dorm, where lamps, windows and students were constantly on high alert for an errant ball in the grill. On my new open turf, I was free to make as many mistakes as my feet would allow, but could do so unruffled by the previous consequences of the ball going awry. Out here, life was at ease?just kicking. Nothing else.
I even learned how to bend a free kick, kind of. It was no Beckham bend, but it would have beaten some U12-caliber goalkeepers to be sure. And my juggling skills had undoubtedly improved over an abbreviated three-week span. So basically, my reign over Luigi, Mario, D.K., Wario and of course, Toad, had enabled soccer to become my ultimate hobby. But there was only one problem?it was just me out there.
Throughout my entire life up until college, I had played on at least two different sports teams per year. At Bowdoin, it was a completely different story. I had hung it up?all of it (I say that like I could have actually made some of the teams). No more football scrimmages or team dinners. No more hooping it up and fervently praying that our coach wouldn't make us run suicides at the end of practice. No more taking cuts in the batting cage or making a Scott Brosius bare-handed play to barely get the runner at first. Nope, it was all gone. Sure, there would be intramurals, other student organizations like BCN and, of course, the Meddiebempsters, but somehow all of them lacked the feel-good camaraderie, only found on athletic teams, that I was so accustomed to?and I needed to fix that immediately.
Out on the pitch (that's soccer field for you Americans) I began to conjure up ways in which I might potentially be able to try out, and if I was lucky enough, join a sports team at Bowdoin for the upcoming year. But all I had was soccer, and even though I don't consider myself to be terribly unathletic, not even Jared the Subway guy could help me out of this jam?there was just no way I'd ever be fast enough, and I'm pretty sure Head Coach Fran O'Leary doesn't make substitutions for torpid free-kickers. "What to do...what to do...," I thought to myself. And then, suddenly, it came to me?American football involves kicking.
Quicker than you can say Billy Cundiff, I was sprinting from the pitch to my house to hunt down an old high school football and tee that I found eventually nestled between a pair of cobwebs in the corner of my basement. Then it was back to the pitch, only this time I found one with some gigantic posts (that's uprights for you international kids) at both ends and began my second career as a kicker.
At first, I was atrocious. I must have kicked the ground more times than the ball for the first two weeks, which led to many an ice-pack healing session come nightfall, which wasn't great news being a tour guide here for the summer. But I continued to persist with my love for football, determined to make the team here at Bowdoin, while allocating time for my other love on the pitch with soccer?I was like a jovial polygamist with a bronze foot; things could only get better from here.
After a couple more successful outings in mid-July, I eventually worked up enough courage and confidence to talk to Head Football Coach Dave Caputi about my future plans with his team. We sat down in Thorne Dining Hall and had a solid conversation, and toward the end I was told by the magnanimous commander-in-chief that I would be given a shot. I rejoiced.
I continued my routine throughout the rest of the summer, carefully examined some kickers' mechanics during some preseason games on TV, and spoke briefly to my ex-high school teammate and kicker, Spencer (now at Wake Forest), who gave me some valuable tips. So when Preseason Day 1 rolled around, I felt I was ready to go.
I arrived early in the morning on the first day of practice, and met some of my new teammates. We moved some new first years in, had several meetings and got our equipment late in the afternoon. Not to get all metaphorical here, but my helmet and shoulder pads were both perfect fits. I was then instructed to visit our renovated locker rooms, each separate locker now personalized with some snazzy new nameplates. My name, however, wasn't one of them.
Perplexed, and a little disappointed, I somberly George Michael-ed my way over to the equipment manager to issue my complaint. "Hi, my name's Chris Adams-Wall and I don't have a nameplate or locker." He didn't hear me at first: "Sorry, what's the name?" "Chris Adams-Wall." He furrowed his brow. Then it registered: "Oh, you're the walk-on!" I couldn't believe it?he knew who I was. It wasn't a big deal that I didn't have my own nameplate, because I was the walk-on! At that moment I felt like my summer-long mission had been accomplished.
Later that evening, however, we had another meeting, this one for two hours, and instead of going over kicking (not that there's much, if anything, to go over), I worked out with the quarterbacks and came to another realization: Playing football would consume my life for the fall. Unfortunately, all summer long I had foolishly believed that because Bowdoin was a Division III program, I could just boot the ball and come and go as I pleased; I was going to be the kicker, for crying out loud. But I was in for a rude awakening, because Bowdoin football is no cake walk. In fact, it's far from it. It is an up-at-dawn, gut-wrenching, work-hard-or-get-out program run by one of the finest coaching staffs in New England that one cannot fully understand until he actually experiences it. Even if for just one day.
My career as a collegiate kicker lasted a little longer than Rasheed Wallace's time with the Atlanta Hawks?about 24 hours. The next day I emailed Coach Caputi and explained to him that I had completely underestimated the amount of time I would have to devote to the team and needed to retire, for better or worse. And just like that, without ever having actually kicked a field goal, I was done. But I'll always have the other football, and the memories that came in pursuing a far-fetched dream. So, this coming week, while everyone else is taking in the upcoming NFL season, finishing up some homework, or watching Kanye obliterate 50 in sales, I'll be out on the pitch practicing my free kicks. And hey, if the CFL comes a-knocking for a kicker, you can bet I'll be the first to tryout.